


Nobody Except Death (Will Part Us)

by agent_orange



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So let us melt, and make no noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Except Death (Will Part Us)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to coyotesuspect for betaing.

Castiel disappears right after he beams Sam and Dean out of the cemetery and back to Bobby's place, muttering something about burns and checking up on Meg. Sam hopes he heard wrong.

"Why are you go--" Dean begins, but there's a rush of cold air that Sam can feel, even from ten feet away. It seeps into his bones.

"Did you kill the son of a bitch?" Bobby asks, looking hopeful and trying not to at he same time. "You wouldn't be talkin' to me if you hadn't, right?"

Sam shakes his head, a curl of hair swinging in front of his eyes. "Dean shot him right in the forehead; didn't kill him."

"_What_?" Bobby spits, but it's a knee-jerk reaction. It's clear from the expression on his face that he heard them right the first time.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Shot 'im, and he got right back up and threw me against a tree." He rubs his shoulder. "Don't make sense."

"Of _course_ it don't make sense." Bobby wheels himself over to the stack of worn books on the table. "Idiot. Alright, lemme see what I can find out." His tones softens, and he ducks his head, avoiding Dean's eyes. "You boys should salt and burn their personal effects."

"Bobby--"

"He's right, Sam," Dean cuts in. "We need to, and sooner would be better than later."

*

It's warm outside for November, even in Missouri. The sun is hot on Sam's cheek; there's not a cloud in the sky to offer some shade from the harsh glare. He glances over at Dean, whose eyes are unusually shiny. "Dude, are you crying?" he asks.

"_No_," says Dean. "It's fucking _bright_ out, in case you haven't noticed."

"Okay," Sam replies, and lets it drop. He doesn't need a fight right now, and Dean's wound tight enough as it is.

There aren't exactly bodies to bury, but they nail pieces of wood into makeshift crosses, drive the stakes into the sun-warmed ground. Sam wipes his hands on his jeans, smearing dirt over the worn fabric; Dean lets it sift through his fingers. "Ready?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sam replies. "You?"

They don't carry much with them on the road--clothes, toiletries, weapons, a few old photos, but Sam's made room in his duffle. He fishes out Ellen and Jo's hairbrushes, pours some salt onto them, watches as Dean drops a lit book of matches onto the ground.

*

When Sam's head is bent over his laptop that night, he hears the smooth slide of a knife being unsheathed. He looks up, unsure of why Dean's getting it out now, when he doesn't need to sharpen or clean it, but Dean just spins it between his fingers, the letters _W.A.H._ gleaming in the low light.


End file.
